


Deflate

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Xander/Spike, Really dark, Season/Series 06, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander remembered stumbling away, sickened, disgusted, and unsure who he was sick or disgusted with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deflate

The first time, it’d been all about the worry. ‘Naked push-ups’ was the flimsiest excuse in all of Flimsyville and Xander was pretty ashamed that it’d taken him _two days_ for the lightbulb to start shining. But eventually a nice, even glow had highlighted all those crevices and shadowed fissures, the jagged, obsidian-sharp edges exposed with crystal clarity. He’d always been good at denial; shoving things under dusty blankets and into unused corners—but he had limits. Maybe more like _even_ he had limits, and they always seemed to center around blonde hair and a thin mouth that never smiled anymore.

So he’d snuck out at night, away from Anya’s increasingly distant eyes, and gone to watch. He knew he was neither skilled at subterfuge nor particularly subtle, but it didn’t seem to matter that he blundered around with an elephant’s trumpet, bumping into things and snapping _logs_ instead of tiny twigs—no one was listening. The cemetery was virtually empty and what few creatures Xander did pass ignored him as irrelevant.

 _Step on a crack, break your mother’s back_.

He’d stood there, frozen all but for his churning stomach, and watched. The door had been left open—broken, really, shoved by eager, violent hands—exposing dirty floors and dirty walls and dirty actions spread out on dirty blankets. Pale skin, milky and pure and he didn’t know _whose_ , only that it glowed in the moonlight, long lines with fuzzy edges and soft blue veins underneath. Like _he_ was, underneath, watching her so intently that he never saw Xander stare, never heard him gasp or silently retch. The look of awe—like the first time, like _all_ first times, except this couldn’t be, not really, and _god_ —was overwhelming. There was nothing but her, for him. All he, all Xander _knew_ he saw, was haloed hair, angles where there should be curves, big hands trying to smooth them out, trying to _force_ some softness into what could only be described as—

Xander remembered stumbling away, sickened, disgusted, and unsure who he was sick or disgusted with. Was it the girl, back arched in agony that held no true pleasure, face twisted into a grimace as she rode harder and faster, searching for some elusive release? Was it the man—not a man, not a _man_ —below her, face cragged with shadows, full of adoration that had hurt to watch, like pink down-blanket layered over garbage?

Or was it him, who’d never looked and never cared to see the shadows clinging to her back, the whip that drew blood over and over?

Xander knew demons. Not the ones that lept out from graves, fully formed and hungry, Hollywood’s horrors made real. No, he knew _true_ demons, the kind that sunk their claws into your skin, tearing and scratching for the soul within. Drugs. Drink. Gambling. Food. Fists and words honed like knives, turned on others since their own bodies were already torn to shreds.

Sex.

The Harris family tree wasn’t a green and vibrant thing, but sickly; the ground beneath it littered with those who’d fallen. He’d always known that he was destined to be one of those desiccated brown leaves—he’d thought it would be drink, like his mother, or gambling, like his father. A chance to while away his miserable, useless life into manufactured oblivion. 

He’d known it would never be a vampire or some other night creature that ended him. That would be too kind.

But for all that was _his_ destiny, he’d never thought it would be _hers_. She was golden sunlight on earth, light where darkness prevailed. She was _above_ all that, better because she had to be, to survive. To see her muffled, dragged down under the shadows until her light grew fainter, weaker, even her skin losing that bronzed glow... That was when Xander finally, truly understood just how stupid he’d been, bringing her back. Just how wrong. 

This Buffy lacked the vitality, the energy that had sustained her through so much. And without it, she was an empty husk, waiting to be filled.

Figured that Spike got there first.

The second time had been about hate and revenge. He’d sweated around a stake lovingly carved that very day, sawdust grinding into his palm every time he clenched his fist. He’d stood in the doorway, unable to see this time, though the sounds were clear enough—moans and whispers, harsh demands always muted by a softer baritone, coaxing instead of cruel. Xander had stayed there, back pressed against the door jamb, bottom growing numb from night-cold stone, listening to Buffy as she threw herself against Spike’s willing body, tearing at him because she could not tear at herself. He listened to Spike take it all and ask— _beg_ —for more.

He’d worked himself into a righteous fury by then, blaming everything on that stupid, cocky bastard one level below him. It had to be his fault, because no matter how dangerous Buffy was, she’d never have released this thing inside her without Spike. _He_ was the cause. He was a dirty, disgusting _thing_ , who used someone who had no defenses. She was too broken, too hurt, and Spike was taking advantage of that, he had to be. He was drawing out that hate, reveling in it, the twisted bastard, lancing it from Buffy like—

Buffy’s aching cry of release that never was echoed into Xander’s head as he buried it in his hands.

When he left that night, the stake remained tucked behind the crypt door, safely hidden in the darkness.

The third time was a blur, as were the fourth and fifth and sixth. He stopped thinking about _why_ he was coming, learning to read the signs, to follow seemingly random schedules, and just _went_. Anya grew sullen as he became more distant, his eyes always on Buffy’s too thin face, her tongue sharpened to a fish-wife’s point in weeks instead of the years it’d taken his own mother. Xander ignored her, as he ignored virtually everything else. 

All that mattered was that twitch of perfectly arched eyebrows and the growing lattice of bruises and blood that spider-webbed over Spike’s body. She wanted more, Xander knew. All addicts did.

By the seventh time, Xander wasn’t hiding along the edges any longer. He knew they’d never notice him even if he were breathing down their sweaty necks—and probably wouldn’t care besides. So he crept past the doorway, tucking himself out of the light to listen. He wanted to watch—god, he dreamed of it now, imagined all the things he heard Spike do, all the words Buffy never allowed herself to say—but their chosen place was downstairs, where Spike’s bed was, despite how rarely they actually hit the surprisingly clean sheets. He couldn’t go down there—not again, not while they _were_ there—not without forcing them to notice his presence. Not without changing the game from observer—never impartial—to participant.

It did, anyway.

Tenth time, and they weren’t at the crypt. Buffy had ordered them to leave her this patrol to her, citing a particularly gruesome demon and the need to stay out nearly all night. She’d left with blankets and sleeping bag in tow and Xander had known. _Known_ with crystal certainty what that nylon bag had meant, the way Buffy’s step hadn’t quite sprung but hadn’t slapped at the ground the way it usually did when she was riding that need, that _hate_ for the fix she craved.

He’d followed. He hadn’t even tried to hide a single sound, but she never once looked left or right. She found the demon—as gruesome as advertised—with Spike already attacking the thing. Xander’s first instinct, as always, was to lose his sick fascination and _help_ , jump right into the fray no matter how useless or dangerous he’d be. But there was no need, not with the feral grins Buffy and Spike had exchanged, or the way they practically _dismembered_ the demon to kill it.

Well. Not _they_. Buffy. Spike had stopped after the head came off, standing back to watch as Buffy panted her way through arms and tentacle, trunk and leg. Her face was covered in sweat, flushed bright pink, eyes feverish even with only the stars to highlight them. She looked _sick_ , Xander thought, hands clenching into tight fists, no longer dreading the moment when Spike moved, but praying for it. _Show her_ , his mind demanded, thoughts a sickly swirl of disgust and the want that’d never stopped in six years of knowing her. _Stop her, make it better—_

Spike moved in a blur, shoving Buffy from the demon’s carcass and throwing her into a tree. “What!” she spat. “I was doing my job!”

“You were _enjoying_ the job, is what you were doing, pet,” Spike told her, silk and terror wrapped up in lace. “Wanted to make him pay for it, didn’t you? Wanted to show him who was boss.”

Buffy stilled, the words clearly from a prior conversation—one she didn’t like. Her lips, shining from spatters of blood, thinned down into the impassive nothingness Xander wanted to slap off. “I was doing my job,” she said again, clipped and hiding her fury.

Her _pain_.

Spike shoved her again, growling and obviously taunting her to shove right back. “Pet, that bit of offal wasn’t a threat to anyone and you knew it. Didn’t tell your chums, though, did you? Oh no. Told them how big an’ bad he was, how scary. Had to kill him, didn’t you, to keep them safe—oh, and don’t forget how he was much too dangerous for them to come _with_ you. Gotta keep them snug in their beds while _you_ play martyr for them, don’t you? Oh, no, Slayer. This wasn’t about protection. Wasn’t near all that drivel you spout on about, sacred duty my tight right butt-cheek.” Spike’s grin was sharp-edged in the moonlight, body looming over Buffy’s immobile one. “I know what this was about, Slayer. I _know_.”

“You don’t know anything, Spike.” She sounded right, sounded tense and withdrawn, sunk into her own shrinking skin, like each word was strained through clenched teeth. But Xander could see her panting, could practically _smell_ her excitement. “You never have.”

Spike’s coat flared as he pushed himself against her, the angle just right to see that sneer Xander would never admit made his pants grow tighter. “Know lots of things, pet,” Spike told her, kinder now, if the edge of mockery was ignored. “Lots and lots of things. Know what you need, Slayer, what you were after here tonight. Gonna give it to you, too.”

“Oh, right,” Buffy said, head thrown back in cracked laughter. “ _You_ know what _I_ —hey!”

She never truly fought in moods like this, so it wasn’t hard for Spike to twist her around, distracting her just enough that she didn’t even _notice_ when her clothes were removed, body braced against Spike’s so he could—could—

Xander held his breath.

The _crack_ was gun-shot loud, stilling the faint night noises as it ricocheted off stone buildings. She didn’t cry out, too frozen in shock, Xander guessed, to know which way to react. Spike’s chuckle rolled over her. “Thought so,” he murmured, and then his hand came down again, another bright red hand-print against pale, curved skin. And again. And _again_.

The angle had to be miserable, Spike half-twisted around Buffy to reach, but he never shifted her, never let _her_ shift out of his arms. He just continued to bring his palm down flat—side—just the fingers—over and over until there wasn’t a bit of white on Buffy’s skin, just red and red and red. The blows were fierce and rough, much harder than anything Xander and Anya had played with, but that just made it better, each one of Spike’s touches guaranteed to leave hurt and a swollen flush behind. He told her things, as he spanked her, blows increasing in frequency and strength, but Xander couldn’t hear it. He was too lost in the echo of each dry _slap_ of flesh on flesh, Buffy’s harsh, wet panting, and oh, god, the way she _moved_. Straddled over Spike’s offered thigh, she ground herself into him, writhing sinuously as he continued to spank and she continued to soak his jeans, clinging to him as she gasped for breath, for balance—

Xander’s moan was too low for them to hear, but it shocked him out of his daze. He looked down, unsurprised to see his hand moving frantically over his exposed cock, the head shiny with need. He wanted to be disgusted with himself, to hate that he was getting off to Buffy’s self-hatred, her despair—but then Spike said, “Yeah, that’s right,” low and sticky-slick like caramel, and Buffy _whined_ in the back of her throat, desperate the way he’d never heard her before, and Xander stopped trying to care. He let his hand move on autopilot, matching the ragged rhythm of Buffy’s panting, the steady _slap, slap, slap_ of Spike’s hand on Buffy’s body.

“This is what you need,” Spike told her, leaning against a tree so he could use a forceful blow to push her more fully against his body, right hand busily worming between—Xander could imagine the heat Spike would find, the wet soaking his fingers as he pressed up inside her, finding the place that made Buffy jerk like that, head falling back completely. “S’what you’ve been after the whole time, haven’t you, love? Know you have, you pretty bitch. Just couldn’t take it before, not from the likes of me, no matter how many times I tried to give. But now, ’cause of him, now you’ll let me. It’s not my hands doing this to you, oh no. His, love. It’s him making you burn like this, him you’re rutting against. Him you want to _hurt_.”

Buffy’s body convulsed, deathly silent and she shivered and shook through what Xander thought was probably the first real release she’d had since her return. Her shoulders heaved like she was sobbing, her face buried in Spike’s shoulder, and Spike—

Spike was looking at _him_.

Xander’s orgasm felt like a blow, radiating below the skin to bruise the blood and bone underneath. He bit his fist to stop the ragged sounds he wanted desperately to make, sliding down against someone’s tomb, fist and belly slick with come. Spike’s eyes were still locked on his, even as he crooned to Buffy, no longer manipulating her but holding her—the first time, Xander knew. He could see it across twenty feet into bright blue eyes that widened when she only sighed and cuddled closer to him, head comfortably resting on his shoulder. The first time she’d ever let him touch her this way—in pain or in pleasure.

The last, too. He and Spike both knew that.

Time blurred after that, Xander still shaken and Buffy looking sleepy and soft for the first time in years. Somehow, Spike managed to get _both_ of them up and dressed, supporting Buffy back to her house with a sneering word to Willow about Buffy not being as strong as she bragged—and then the door to the house was shut and Xander found himself shoved against a tree, breathing hard into Spike’s face.

“Enjoy that, Harris? Watching what you and yours did to her?”

The blustery comments he wanted to make, hurling accusation and insult right back, never appeared. “Yes.”

His voice was small, thick with resigned disgust, and that, more than the word itself, seemed to push Spike back onto his own heels, removing his forearm from Xander’s neck. “Thought you might,” he said. “Quite the little voyeur. But then, you need it just as bad as she does, don’t you?” Cool fingers stained yellow brushed over Xander’s bottom lip, then pinched it—not enough to hurt, just to shock Xander into breathing cold and sharp into his throat. “Wish I could do for you too, Harris. But I can do something better.” Spike leaned in, hips rolling as he rubbed his hard cock against Xander’s belly.

Xander’s thighs widened to let Spike in.

“There, knew you’d like that. Think me’n Anya need to have a bit of a chat.” Smirking, Spike pressed his lips to Xander’s for a short, nicotine-flavored kiss, and then abruptly pulled back. “You’ll be hearing from me soon, pet.”

Above him, the light in Buffy’s room turned off.


End file.
